Slater's Way

by Charles G. West

  “I reckon that’s because I taught him how to use a bow and shoot a rifle,” Teddy said.

  “Maybe so,” she said, still smiling as she thought of the Crow name he had been called ever since the first time he went hunting with Teddy—Shoots One Time. “He is fortunate to have you as his friend.”

  “I expect me and him need to ride down to the Yellowstone to Greeley’s tradin’ post and trade that big stack of hides Slater has got piled up in his tipi,” Teddy said. “I know he oughta be gettin’ low on cartridges, and we need some flour and coffee.” He smoothed his mustache with his fingers unconsciously as another matter entered his mind. “We ain’t been down to Greeley’s for a spell. Maybe he’s got some new word on ol’ Red Cloud’s war with the army.”

  The Sioux and Cheyenne had been attacking cavalry haying and woodcutting details all summer near the forts supposedly protecting the Bozeman Trail. Teddy was anxious to find out if any Sioux war parties were roaming anywhere close to the Absarokas. Even if they were, he doubted they would venture deep enough in the mountains to discover the small Crow camp. But it was something to cause him concern, since the little camp of old men and women would be hard put to defend themselves against a Sioux war party. If Slater would ever get back from his latest hunting trip, the two of them could get the latest word from Martin Greeley.

  “Ain’t no tellin’ when he’s liable to be back,” he said. The words had barely passed his lips when he heard Crooked Foot call out a greeting to the returning hunter. “Speak of the devil. . . ,” Teddy muttered, and got up to go out of the tipi.

  Outside, Teddy joined the small collection of people who gathered around Slater’s packhorse to examine the recently killed elk. “We’d better butcher it right away,” Red Basket said. “The weather is still too warm to leave the meat uncooked.”

  “It ain’t been dead very long,” Slater said. “I run up on it no more’n a couple of miles from here.”

  “That close?” Teddy asked, surprised. “Looks like we mighta heard your shot.”

  “I got him with my bow,” Slater explained. “Seemed to me like he was just wantin’ to get shot. He crossed my path when I was comin’ up the other side of the mountain, and he just stopped and stared at me. It was a good chance to save some cartridges, so I shot him with my bow. Figured he was so close I couldn’t miss.”

  “I figured you was gettin’ low on cartridges,” Teddy said. “We need some other stuff, too. So why don’t we ride down to Martin Greeley’s place in the mornin’ and do some tradin’?”

  “All right with me,” Slater said as he pulled the elk’s carcass off his packhorse. “We might as well have this one for supper. After we go to Greeley’s, I’ll go huntin’ for more meat to store for winter.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Slater loaded the hides he had accumulated on his packhorse, then threw his saddle on the paint gelding he’d ridden since trading his father’s sorrel. The paint was an Indian pony, a stout horse that had harbored a strong dislike for his previous owner, Walking Stick, who was one of the oldest men in the village. Walking Stick had traded two mares for the paint with Martin Greeley, and soon found out why Greeley hadn’t been difficult to bargain with.

  “Whoever gelded him musta done a sorry job,” Teddy had commented. “They didn’t get all the stallion outta him.”

  After several attempts to negotiate a peace treaty with the spirited horse, Walking Stick was more than willing to trade horses with Slater. Fully expecting to meet with the same difficulty that had caused both Greeley and Walking Stick to get rid of the horse, Slater was surprised when it submitted to his authority willingly. Teddy could only surmise that the paint recognized a strength in Slater that it had not sensed in his previous owners.

  “It’s downright disgustin’,” Teddy said to Red Basket, “the way that damn horse nuzzles around Slater like a pet puppy. And if you try to get on him, you’re liable to get bit.”

  There was no real explanation for it, because Slater was certainly not likely to make a pet of the horse. He believed in taking care of the horse’s needs before he took care of his own—and never applied the whip—but he was never one to coddle the animal.

  After waiting by the waterfall for over fifteen minutes for Teddy to come out of his tipi, Slater led his horses over beside the tipi flap and called out, “Come on, old man, we’re burnin’ daylight.”

  In a minute, Red Basket came out and was about to speak when Teddy yelled from inside, “I’m comin’, dad-burn it. Just give me a dad-blamed minute.”

  Red Basket looked at Slater and shook her head. “He can’t ride,” she whispered. “He woke up with the bad pain in his hips again.”

  “The hell I can’t ride,” Teddy blurted, overhearing as he pushed the tipi flap aside and made an unconvincing effort to walk normally. “It just took me a while to get myself up and goin’. I’m all right now.”

  Slater was not convinced. He looked at Red Basket and nodded. He was inclined to believe her. Back to Teddy, he said, “You don’t look ready to me. You’d best stay here and look after the people. I’ll go do the tradin’.”

  “The hell you say,” Teddy protested. “Ol’ Martin’s liable to skin you if I ain’t there to do the tradin’.” It was obvious to Slater that his friend was in pain, even as he stood there denying it. He suspected Teddy was most concerned about missing an opportunity to buy a jug of the poison Greeley called whiskey.

  “Climb up on my saddle,” Slater said.

  “What for?” Teddy replied.

  “I just wanna see if you can,” Slater answered.

  “Hell, that crazy horse of your’n will buck me off if I try to ride him. And I don’t see no sense in gettin’ on your horse anyway.”

  “He won’t buck you,” Slater said. “I’ll hold his head while you get on him.”

  “I don’t wanna get on your horse. You’re talkin’ nonsense. We’ve got to get started, if we’re goin’.”

  Slater didn’t say anything more, just stood watching Teddy while holding the paint’s bridle. Teddy took hold of the saddle horn but made no move to mount the horse. When he still made no motion after several minutes, Slater said, “That’s what I thought. You can’t even raise your leg to put your foot in the stirrup. Red Basket’s right. You ain’t ready to ride outta these mountains today. I’ll take care of the tradin’ this time.”

  Red Basket placed her hand on Teddy’s arm. “Come, Red Buffalo, I’ll feed you some more of that elk—make you strong—fix your hip.”

  “I can ride,” Teddy protested weakly, but made no effort to pull away.

  “I’ll bring you a jug of Greeley’s medicine,” Slater whispered in his ear. “I’ll be back tomorrow evenin’.”

  He climbed aboard the paint and set out for the trading post on the Yellowstone. As the hawk flies, it was no more than twenty miles, but because of the difficulty of the winding route he had to take, and the mountains he had to cross before reaching the Yellowstone Valley, he planned to make it an overnight visit.

  * * *

  “Somebody’s comin’,” Clyde Rainey said to Martin Greeley. He stood in the open door of the trading post, watching a rider following the trail down from the bluffs leading a packhorse.

  “Who is it?” Greeley asked the old man who had been working for him for more than six years.

  “Don’t know yet,” Clyde answered. “He ain’t close enough for me to tell. He’s leadin’ a packhorse that’s got a heavy load, though.” He remained in the doorway, watching until the rider was close enough for Clyde to recognize him. After a few minutes more passed, he said, “I swear, it looks like that scary-lookin’ feller that lives with them Crows back up in the mountains. But Teddy ain’t with him. Wonder how come? I ain’t never seed him ride in here ’cept when Teddy was with him.”

  Curious now, Greeley walked to the door to see for himself, si
nce Clyde’s eyesight was not always accurate. “That’s him, all right,” Greeley said. “Reckon this time he’s gonna have to say something.” On prior visits, the somber friend of Teddy Lightfoot never seemed to utter more than a single grunt or two while Teddy did all the talking.

  When Slater pulled up to the hitching rail, Greeley and Clyde walked out to meet him. “Looks like you’re wantin’ to do some tradin’,” Greeley said in greeting.

  “That’s a fact,” Slater answered.

  “Where’s Teddy?” Greeley asked. “Don’t usually see you if Teddy ain’t with you.”

  “He’s ailin’ a little,” Slater replied, “stove up in his hips, so I reckon you’ll be dealin’ with me today.”

  “Well, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Slater stepped down, and he and Clyde untied the buffalo hide that had served as a cover for the load of pelts. Greeley briefly considered testing Slater’s knowledge of the worth of the hides, thinking that he might not be as hard to deal with as Teddy. On second thought, however, he decided to play it fair and square, although he would miss the haggling that usually went on between him and Teddy. There was just something about the stony countenance of Teddy’s young friend that discouraged Greeley from thinking about cheating him. So he graded the hides one by one as he and Clyde pulled them off the horse. As was usually the case, most of them were prime. When he had tallied up the stack, he told Slater how much credit he would allow for the bundle, and Slater nodded his acceptance and started listing the things he needed.

  After buying ammunition for both Teddy and himself, Slater bought coffee beans, flour, and dried beans. Once the essentials were taken care of, he asked, “Is there enough left for a jug of whiskey?”

  “Maybe just enough,” Greeley said. “I never saw you take a drink. I didn’t know you used it.”

  “I don’t,” Slater replied. “It’s for Teddy.”

  “Well, be sure and tell him I hope he gets back on his feet pretty soon,” Greeley said as he stood watching Slater tie his purchases on the packhorse. “Tell him I’m hopin’ we’ll see a boat up the river this far in a week or two, with the water up as high as it’s been since spring. So you boys better keep huntin’, ’specially if you can get some more as prime as these you brought in today.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Slater said, and stepped up into the saddle. “He wanted me to ask you if you’ve heard anything about Sioux war parties over this way.”

  “Well, not over this far,” Greeley said, “but east of here, I’m told they’ve been causin’ the army a lot of trouble. A feller came through here last week and said there was a war party that attacked some soldiers workin’ in a hayfield near Fort Smith, over on the Bighorn—had a big fight. But I ain’t heard nothin’ else.”

  Slater nodded thoughtfully. “Well, much obliged.” He turned the paint’s head away from the hitching post and gave him a nudge of his heels.

  Greeley and Clyde watched him until he disappeared back up in the bluffs. “Well, he still don’t say much,” Clyde said. “But he can talk if he has to.”

  * * *

  Slater guided the paint up an almost hidden game trail at the end of a box canyon that led up into slopes that were so dense with pine trees there was almost no penetrating sunlight. He thought about the first time he had entered these mysterious mountains, when he had followed Teddy Lightfoot to the tiny gathering of Crow tipis by the waterfall. He remembered how totally lost he had felt as Teddy led him up narrow ravines and across wooded slopes. That was a long time ago, and now he knew the mountains as if they were his backyard, both the Absarokas and the Beartooths. They were his backyard, and he had hunted and scouted every inch of them. In fact, in the past four-plus years, he had seldom ventured out of these mountains. The few times that he had were when he was in a mood to ride back to the mountains where he had first met Teddy, a range that Teddy said some called the Tobacco Root Mountains. He didn’t know the origin of the name, but he remembered the boy who had fled to them to escape a posse. What Teddy had told him then, that he would never be found in the Absarokas, had turned out to be an accurate prediction.

  He thought then about his present situation as he nudged the paint a couple of times with his heels when the horse hesitated before crossing a rocky stream. There were even fewer people left in the tiny camp now than there had been when he arrived. And the burial ground below the village had almost as many platforms as there were people left alive. He wondered how many years were left before all of the old people died. There could not be many. Then where would he, Teddy, and Red Basket go? Teddy was already so stove up in his joints that he couldn’t ride as he used to, but Slater was sure he had many years left before he had to permanently sit by the fire. He decided it was a good thing that he had met Teddy Lightfoot, and he was content to remain there in the mountains and provide for the people who had become his family.

  They will be glad to see me, and the supplies I’m bringing, he thought, especially Teddy when he sees the jug.

  The thought almost brought a smile to the stony face where smiles seldom strayed. No more than a second later, a frown of concern settled upon his brow, followed by immediate alarm, for he detected the first hint of smoke coming to him on the gentle breeze from the east. There was still a mountain between him and the Crow village, so he couldn’t determine the source of the smoke. But he knew he was too far away to be able to smell smoke from the cook fires in the village, even with a helping wind. He hurried the paint gelding along, although the horse was already maintaining a good pace up the steep climb.

  When he reached the point where the trail took a wide turn around the giant granite column and the first view of the waterfall presented itself, he discovered the source of the smoke. It drifted up to him from the burning remains of the tipis by the lake far below him. The sight struck him like a solid blow to his chest, and he felt the blood in his veins go cold. It was the same feeling he had experienced when he first saw his father hanging from a pole beside the saloon in Virginia City. Anxious to get to the village, he hurried his horse down the winding trail, hoping desperately that he would find someone alive.

  The cruel sight that met him when he finally made his way down into the canyon struck him with devastating force that made him feel sick to his very core. Scattered among the smoldering tipis, the bodies of his Crow friends told the story of the tragedy that had befallen them on this day. Only a couple of the bodies were found in the ruins of their tipis. The others were slain as they had attempted to run from their attackers, some between the tipis, some near the meadow where the pony herd had been, and some at the edge of the lake. The little village smelled of death. Slater hurried from body to body, identifying each one, frantically searching for Teddy and Red Basket, hoping they would not be among the scalped victims. He found Teddy, however, beneath the low bank of the lake, his body mutilated and scalped, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his neck. On the gravel beside the body, Slater saw five empty cartridge shells that told him Teddy had gotten off a few shots before they killed him. Still there was no sign of Red Basket.

  Although a man of few emotions, Slater immediately felt the anger rising in his veins, and he vowed to find the people responsible for the massacre. That was the most important thing, to track them down and punish them. To mourn the dead and construct burial platforms for all of them would mean an important loss of time, so he immediately began scouting the scene of the attack. He would come back to take care of the dead, but only after the warriors had paid for their evil.

  There was more than enough sign to give him an idea of the size of the war party that had surprised the peaceful Crow camp. He estimated ten or twelve, Sioux, by the look of the few arrows that had not been recovered. They had swept in from below the lake, probably with no idea the village was there until they stumbled upon it. He could only guess how much of a head start the war party now had, but judging by the still-b
urning tipis and the condition of the bodies, he estimated that it had been only a few hours. There was only one trail into the canyon from above the waterfall—the way he had come down. So the raiders must have left the village from the lower end of the canyon.

  He had to be sure, however, so he scouted the trail at the lower end of the lake carefully, even though the many tracks leading away from the camp left little doubt. Not willing to waste any more time, he had started to step up into the saddle when he was startled by a splashing in the water behind him. He spun around with his rifle raised to fire, only to be startled a second time by the sight of Red Basket emerging from the lake, her long doeskin dress clinging to her body.

  “Teddy said to hide till you come back,” Red Basket gasped as she trudged up from the water. “I could not help him. I have no weapon, but he thought he could drive them away with his rifle. So I do like Teddy say.” She turned and pointed to a bank of elderberry bushes at the water’s edge. “I hide there and stay in the water after they kill Teddy.” She seemed unusually calm considering the tragedy she had just witnessed, and the husband she had just lost. “I hide there again when I hear your horse,” she said, explaining the reason for her wet clothes.

  “I reckon you did the right thing,” Slater said, “’cause there ain’t nobody else left alive. I thought maybe they took you with ’em.”

  “Teddy fight hard,” Red Basket said. “Killed two of them before they shot him.”

  “Who was it?” Slater asked, although he was pretty sure who the raiders were.

  “Lakota war party,” Red Basket confirmed. “They sneak up through trees at lower end of lake. They were on us before we knew they were there.”